


Made With Love

by bafflinghaze



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Food, Indulgent Crowley, M/M, Post not-pocalypse, Rated for almost flirty themes at times?, Soft Aziraphale, Tiniest Flangst, Very-in-love Crowley, kinda soft Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19803085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bafflinghaze/pseuds/bafflinghaze
Summary: It was mid-morning, and the sun was shining and the birds were tweeting. Crowley trailed after Aziraphale, and he scowled at the humans who dared to look at his hand in Aziraphale’s andsmileat him.The amount of rainbows everywhere was eye-watering. Cakes and puddings and baked goods were arranged and packaged with homely flair. The scent of caramel, yeast, sugar, chocolate, and butter pastry was heavy in the air. AndYes, Crowley had agreed with Aziraphale, itwasall very pretty.However, the prettiest thing here would have to be his angel, face aglow—“—Oh,Crowley!Angel and devil cupcakes!” Aziraphale gasped.*Or, in which Crowley acquires the best food for Aziraphale and ends up rather stunned to find himself in his kitchen with a recipe for crepes.





	Made With Love

It was mid-morning, and the sun was shining and the birds were tweeting. Crowley trailed after Aziraphale, and he scowled at the humans who dared to look at his hand in Aziraphale’s and _smile_ at him.

The amount of rainbows everywhere was eye-watering. To think _Her_ gift to never kill-the-world-via-flooding would lead to _this_ , a charity bake sale, with stalls set in neat rows in a small park. Cakes and puddings and baked goods were arranged and packaged with homely flair. The scent of caramel, yeast, sugar, chocolate, and butter pastry was heavy in the air. And _Yes_ , Crowley had agreed with Aziraphale, it _was_ all very pretty.

However, the prettiest thing here would have to be his angel, face aglow—

“—Oh, _Crowley!_ Angel and devil cupcakes!” Aziraphale gasped. Throwing Crowley a delighted grin, Aziraphale tugged him over to the stall selling the cupcakes in question. “These are just _too_ lovely,” Aziraphale told the human behind the table. “How do you craft such delicate wings? It’s positively magical!”

The human grinned, flipping back pink hair. “Thanks! It’s just a bit of frosted sugar.”

“Fantastic! And these devil cupcakes. That chocolate looks so _dark_ and rich. I’ll have one of each!” Aziraphale paused as he surveyed the other goods, nibbling at his bottom lip.

 _Ah_. Crowley leaned forward, pointing out one of the rainbow cupcakes with red heart, and another one in pastel frosting with a now-extinct unicorn decoration. “And these too, for my angel,” he said. He passed over twenty quid. “Keep the change.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphae said, smiling as he accepted the four cupcakes in a small cardboard box. “Thank you,” he said to the seller. To Crowley, he let go of Crowley’s hand to link their arms instead.

“And thank you, Crowley.”

“Whatever,” Crowley said, glancing away from Aziraphale’s earnest eyes. “There’s much more to see.” He shivered a little at the burst of happiness radiating from Aziraphale.

“I’m _so_ pleased you suggested this, Crowley.”

“It’s nothing,” Crowley insisted. He glanced back to Aziraphale to see a smile on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Aziraphale shook his head, smile still on his face. “ _Oh_. Let’s go over there!”

❤️

An hour later, Crowley had a stack of boxes in hands and numerous bags hanging off his arms.

“Perhaps this is too much,” Aziraphale said, lips pursed, eyebrows drawn together, and shoulders slumped.

“It’s a celebration. For charity,” Crowley said, tilting his head. “Those are all good things.”

Aziraphale fluttered his hands, resting them over his stomach briefly before threading fingers together. “I suppose so.”

At the corner of Crowley’s eye, he noticed one of the tables miraculously came free. He headed over and placed down all the boxes and bags. “Why don’t you have some now, and you can buy more later if anything else takes your fancy?”

“I _am_ getting peckish…”

“Come on, angel.” Crowley took a seat and spread out his hand towards the opposite seat.

With grace and aplomb, Aziraphale sat down. He took out the box with the cupcakes and gave a little grin. “The angel cake for you. The devil’s for me.”

Crowley scowled. “ _Really_?” Body shifted away, Crowley reached out and accepted the angel cupcake.

Aziraphale grinned. “Go on.”

Crowley stared at the cupcake. Flicked his eyes up to Aziraphale instead, and took a bite.

It was fine: sweet, fluffy, and light. But he never had the same enjoyment of food as Aziraphale, nor the discerning taste. But Aziraphale looked so _expectant_ , so Crowley smiled back to ease his angel’s thoughts.

“It tastes _exactly_ like you,” he declared, and took another bite for good measure.

A sweet flush rose across Aziraphale’s cheeks, making him positively cherubic. “You _foul_ fiend,” he mumbled. Aziraphale lifted the devil’s cupcake and took a bite from the side. There was a dab of cream icing on the tip of his nose. “ _Ohhh_ ,” he said, eyes shuttering closed. “There’s so much love in this. This baker cared. Worked so hard.”

Crowley straightened in his seat. “You can _taste_ it in food?”

“I can sense love in anything,” Aziraphale said. “And it’s _so_ delicious.” He gave a half smirk to Crowley, eyes twinkling.

Crowley leaned over and swiped the little bit of cream icing from Aziraphale’s nose with his thumb, and licked it. “Yes, tastes _exactly_ like you.”

Aziraphale pouted. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“I would never,” Crowley said. With too much truth, really. He waved a hand. “Eat, enjoy.”

Aziraphale gave a secretive smile. “I will.”

❤️

Love.

Aziraphale _loved_ food.

Furthermore, Aziraphale had told Crowley numerous times that angels were beings of love.

That explained why Aziraphale never went for the commercial chains: those workers did _not_ love their job, and they did _not_ love the food they had to make.

(And _no_ , Crowley was _not_ the one who invented exploitative capitalism—that was all humans.)

Crowley had made careful note of Aziraphale’s reactions to the food at the amateur bake sale, cross-referenced them with his memory notes of all of Aziraphale’s previous reactions. Crowley concluded that Aziraphale loved the food at the amateur bake-sale as much as he loved the high-class chefs at the Ritz.

It was unlikely that it due to the _calibre_ of the bakers at the sale. The logical conclusion was the inclusion of love.

His angel deserved the world in Crowley’s high opinion, and that meant Aziraphale deserved the best food in the world, too.

❤️

Hunting down the pink-haired baker was simple. Crowley waited outside their university and intercepted them with his request.

“Wait, you want me to do _what?_ And pay me _how much_?”

“I’m _not_ repeating myself.”

The pink-haired human narrowed their eyes. “You’re not a scammer, are you?”

“Cash, cheque, bank transfer, _I don’t care_ ,” Crowley said. “Money is no object. The specific bake does not matter. As long, _you know_ …”

“Bake with love.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Yes. That. Look, how about I pay double my original offer? Half for you, and half to a charity of your choice?”

The human brightened a little. “Okay, fine.” They took out their phone and frowned. “I can get it done by…”

❤️

The next evening, Crowley came by Aziraphale’s bookshop with a box of baked goods. He went straight to the backroom, where Aziraphale was seated with a book across his lap.

“‘Lo, angel.”

Aziraphale looked up with a relieved smile. “Crowley! There you are! I feared you weren’t going to come tonight,” he said.

Crowley took off his sunglasses and looked at the book. “I’m surprised you remembered the time, translating books all day as you do. I bought dessert.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up, sending warm feelings through Crowley’s chest. Crowley passed the box to Aziraphale before lounging back on the sofa.

Aziraphale opened the box with delight, taking out a deep brown-black brownie with thick cream and red glace cherries. He hummed as he took a bite, and his eyes fluttered closed. “ _Oh_. This is _scrummy_. Oh, Crowley, you _must_ have a taste.” Aziraphale looked at him, lips quirking. “If I could tempt you?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright, angel,” he said, extending a hand. “Give a piece here.”

Aziraphale stood up with the box and plopped himself on the sofa right next to Crowley. “Open up.”

Crowley sighed a little, as Aziraphale hand-fed up a morsel of the brownie. Crowley tasted it, licking Aziraphale’s fingers. The brownie itself was fine.

“Good?”

“ _Very_ ,” Crowley said. Oh, how his angel had tasted...

Aziraphale gave little pleased grin. “Thank you for these, Crowley. _Oh_ , this one has rainbow sprinkles—”

Crowley’s entire body relaxed as he drank in the sight of Aziraphale’s enjoyment, conceding to each of Aziraphale’s little insistences of taste-testing because they made Aziraphale even _more_ joyful. Crowley didn’t want this to end.

❤️

“ _I_ heard that your steak and kidney pies were the loveliest and homeliest,” Crowley said to an old human grandmother. “ _Everyone_ looks forward to them.”

The grandmother laughed. “You’re a _charmer_ ,” she snorted. “But you’re much too young for me!”

Crowley pulled a fake smile. _Oh, it’s the other way round_. Not that he would _ever_ consider anyone else. “Ma’am, I want to commission a pie from you. Baked _exactly_ as you would, thinking about your family. A thousand quid, that should cover it—”

“ _Boy_ ,” the grandmother snorted. “A grandmother’s pie is for _comforting_ , not for _romancing_.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “That is _my_ business. _Will_ you or won’t you?”

The grandmother sighed, smiled. “Sure, why not?”

❤️

The next day, Crowley came in to the bookshop with a basket with a white enamel pie dish inside, hot from the oven.

“Dinner, angel!” he called out. He scowled at some late night shoppers until they all left the shop. With a snap of his fingers, the _open_ sign flipped to _closed_.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stepped out from the back room, eyes sweeping the bookshop. “Oh! They’ve left.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley held up the basket. “I’ve bought dinner.”

Aziraphale trotted forward and took the basket, peering inside. “Oh, that smells _heavenly_.”

They went to the back room, and Crowley served Aziraphale a portion, heart swelling a little when Aziraphale bestowed him with a smile.

Aziraphale inhaled deeply, before eating. His shoulders relaxed back. “Ah, it tastes so _homely_ and comforting,” he said. “Like someone who would always be there, at the end of the day…” He glanced sidelong at Crowley, before eating some more.

Crowley, who hadn’t taken off his sunglasses yet, frowned. Aziraphale seemed distracted. He wasn’t enraptured nor delighted by the pie.

“Don’t eat it, angel,” Crowley said, defeated.

Aziraphale startled. “Pardon? Why not? What’s wrong with it?”

“You clearly don’t like it. There’s no need to continue. It’s—nothing.”

Aziraphale gave him a worried look, brows drawn together. “Oh, come on, Crowley, have a bite. It _does_ taste as heavenly as it smells.” Aziraphale took a spoonful and held it out.

Lips pressed tightly together, Crowley strode over to accept it. Yes, it tasted good. Heavenly? Crowley had never made the habit of _eating_ any part of Heaven to know.

“Good?”

“Yes,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders and smiled. “Hmm, I’m glad.”

“Right.” Crowley retreated to the sofa.

Aziraphale’s smile dimmed a little. He focused back on the pie.

Crowley had the sinking feeling that Aziraphale hadn’t really liked it after all.

❤️

Over the next few weeks, Crowley acquired all the _manner_ of dishes, from French to Indonesian to Ethiopian. He bought Aziraphale breakfasts, and lunches, and dinners, and afternoon teas—

—but Aziraphale’s smile was dimmed. He always seemed distracted, darting glances at Crowley across the room. Like Aziraphale wasn’t fully enjoying the food, like there was something on his mind, but that he just didn’t want to hurt Crowley’s feelings.

Maybe _Crowley_ was the problem—maybe he had come by too frequently, maybe the food wasn’t special enough—

Except, he _knew_ that Aziraphale liked him. They were the best of companions, 6000 years and a failed apocalypse _together_...

At wits end, Crowley returned to the pink-haired baker whose bakes he _knew_ Aziraphale had loved.

“You must bake me more,” he told them. “With as much love as you could possibly feel.”

“I’d admit the money was legit,” they said. “But what’s this insistence on _love_? It doesn’t _make_ the food any different, not really—”

“My—he can taste it,” Crowley scowled. “It’s none of your business.”

Their eyebrows went up. They gave him a sly look. “Maybe _you_ should bake something for him. Your partner, right? Curly hair from the bake-sale? What does he like most?”

Crowley glared at the human, but they seemed so pleased with themself.

“Surely you know your partner’s favourite dish?”

“Crepes,” Crowley spat out. “He loves crepes. Ignored a bloody civil war for them.”

The human grinned. “Great. Like the French ones? Or the Japanese?”

“French.”

“Then just make them.”

“I _don’t_ cook.”

“Then I’ll teach you,” they said, folding their arms. “And then _you_ can make them for him.”

❤️

Crowley was at _wit’s end_ , which was why he bought the crepe pan with its wooden spreader, which was why he bought all the ingredients, and was _cooking_ in a cramped kitchen belonging to and under the watchful eye of the pink-haired human.

“There!” He slapped the crepe onto the plate. He topped it with cream and sliced strawberries.

The human cut off a part with their fork and took a bite. They pulled a face. “Have you ever cooked before?”

“Of course not.” He had a taste himself. The crepes tasted fine.

The human shook their head. “For your boyfriend? Let’s try again, you could do better. Here, I’ll write down the instructions for you, too—”

Biting back retort, Crowley did tried again—

—And again, until the human proclaimed that it was sufficient.

“After all, it would _apparently_ taste better when your partner learns that _you_ made them,” they said. “Good luck!”

Despite all that work, Crowley took Aziraphale to a sushi place that evening in attempt at making Aziraphale happy. The customary servers greeted them, and the chef promised to bring out something special for Mr. Fell.

But Aziraphale didn’t look overly happy, brows pinched as he looked at Crowley. “Darling,” he said in a lowered voice. “Is there something wrong? Why, I had thought you’d been around the world with all those dishes—you _don’t_ have to return right away just for me—”

Crowley gave a strangled laugh. “No, angel, no. London and its surrounds are quite multicultural enough. Really, I should be asking _you_ the same question. We don’t have to eat—”

“I’m simply worried,” Aziraphale said. “How can I enjoy this when there’s clearly something on your mind?”

“Angel. Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “There is _nothing_ for you to worry about.”

“If you say so…”

“I _do_.”

Aziraphale gave a half-hearted smile. “Very well.”

❤️

The next day, Crowley bought the finest flour and sugar and salt, the freshest eggs and milk and cream and butter, and the most perfect strawberries, and took them all to his kitchen. He had never used it before, and that meant a second trip to buy all the other kitchen implements, from bowls to whisks and measuring cups.

He glared at the hand-written recipe the human had given him. For his own sake, he should just pop over to France, get those crepes—

—but Aziraphale’s worried face filled his mind.

Crowley scowled, went off to have a yell at his plants, and then finally returned to his kitchen. He was going to do it _for Aziraphale_.

He sifted together the powdery ingredients, beating the eggs and milk; mixed them together with melted butter until smooth and the creamiest pale yellow. He measured out the batter exactly before pouring it out onto the crepe pan and spreading it thin. Multiple demonic miracles kept the crepes from burning, as Crowley focused and focused on _Aziraphale_ as he made them.

The bin steadily grew full as the crepes came out too thick or too thin, patchy, with holes, imperfect circles. Crowley was determined to have only the _best_ for his angel.

It was late in the afternoon by the time Crowley finished the perfect three crepes, filling them with fluffy white cream and sugared strawberries. He was just about to head out when there was a knock on his door.

Scowling, Crowley stalked to the front and pulled back the door. “No _sales_ —Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale stepped forward, hands wringing and brows drawn together, lips pursed in worry. “Oh, Crowley. You missed lunch, and you hadn’t for a while, and I was afraid—” He looked around past Crowley. “It...it seems to be in order.”

Crowley grimaced. “Sorry, angel, didn’t mean to worry you so. In fact, I was just about to head over to yours—take a seat.” He ushered Aziraphale into his lounge room, where he had left the box of crepes on the coffee table. “I have something for you.” He nudged the box towards Aziraphale.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Alright.”

Crowley tried not to cringe at the dismissive tone. “They’re your favourite. Crepes.” He kneeled in front of the coffee table and took out the plate upon which he had arranged them.

“Oh, you remembered.”

“Hard not to.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Those crepes were divine,” he said with a tilt of his chin. He looked back down at the crepes, and his eyebrows went up. “Hmm, how peculiar. These aren’t from that little French place, are they?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “No.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said again. He miracled a fork and tried the crepes. His eyebrows drew together, eyes flicking to Crowley, then back at the crepes again.

Crowley got to his feet, patting his pockets for his sunglasses. Aziraphale must have tasted something odd in them, something _wrong_.

“No angel, don’t swallow if it’s horrible,” Crowley said. “I should have a _word_ with the person who cooked it—”

Oh yes, he would be having very hard words with himself once Aziraphale left and he was alone in his flat. This was the most stupid, _idiotic_ idea. He should have just _paid_ someone _else_ to cook. _Hell_ , he should have just popped over to France.

“No…” Aziraphale frowned and ate some more, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It just tastes...hmm…”

“Tell me, so I can complain to the chef,” Crowley said, affecting a bored tone.

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale said. “I would never. It’s just…”

“ _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale pouted. “Physically, it tastes normal. _Meta_ physically, it tastes like you.” A flush rose to his cheeks as his eyes dipped down. “It tastes like _your_ love. It’s overwhelmingly intoxicating.” Aziraphale took another bite, and his eyes fluttered closed. “Yes. It does.”

The ground was unsteady beneath Crowley’s feet. “R-right.” A mixture of relief and vulnerability filled Crowley’s chest. He took a step back.

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped to him. “Crowley. What are you not telling me?”

“Ach—” Crowley waved a dismissive hand as though it were nothing. “I made those crepes,” he said, shrugging. “Wasn’t hard at all, you know.”

Aziraphale’s mouth made a little _oh_. “But you’ve _never_ cooked.”

“ _Never_ is a big word for 6000 years,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “Nope, it’s fine. Can’t compare to the masters. Let me take you Paris. We’ll go to a proper cafe with proper crepes.”

“No.”

Crowley blinked, surprised at Aziraphale’s bluntness. “But you _love_ crepes.”

Aziraphale sighed and smiled, softness in his eyes and hand over his heart. “Crowley. I’m touched.” He stood up and approached Crowley with a look in his eye.

Crowley stood his ground. “Yes, angel?”

Aziraphale leaned right in and placed a kiss on Crowley’s cheek. “Thank you, Crowley. You’re so sweet.”

Crowley turned his head away, hand over his eyes. “Don’t say that, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “But it’s true!” He placed a kiss on Crowley’s other cheek, and rested his hands on Crowley’s hips. “Come on, Crowley.”

“You’ll kill me,” Crowley grumbled. He turned his head back and dropped a kiss on the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. “Crepes aren’t dinner,” Crowley said. “We’ll go out for dinner. You like going out.”

Aziraphale smiled, eyes crinkling. “I like eating with _you_. It can’t be that hard to cook, right?” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Let’s go grocery shopping. Find some recipe books, too. We can cook right here, can’t we? Why, it’ll be an adventure!”

“If you insist,” Crowley said. “You don’t think we’re going...too fast?”

Aziraphale’s bright smile softened. “After 6000 years, darling? Most humans learn to cook by their twenties.”

Crowley huffed. He regrettably disentangled himself from Aziraphale. “Are you going to finish those crepes?”

Aziraphale nudged him, smiling broadly. “Of course! They’re _brimming_ with your love.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said, voice gruff. “What does it taste like?” He let himself be pulled onto the sofa next to Aziraphale.

“Like everything,” Aziraphale said. “Warm. Soft. Comforting. _Here_.”

Crowley’s cheeks grew hot. He cleared his throat. “That’s, uh, good.”

Aziraphale tilted his head back on Crowley’s shoulder, smiling angelically. “It is.”

❤️

Later that day, they returned to Crowley’s flat after their rather long shopping trip.

“I’ve never been in your kitchen before,” Aziraphale mused.

“Right this way.” Crowley entered first and stopped, cursing himself. He hadn’t bothered to clean up after his crepe making, and so the kitchen was an absolute mess.

“ _Awwww_ ,” Aziraphale cooed, setting down all his shopping bags. He wandered around the kitchen, touching everything, licking some leftover crepe batter, popping in strawberry in his mouth. “I can just imagine you, standing here, making those crepes.” He swept his arms out. “Thinking about me.”

“You are a bastard,” Crowley said without heat.

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “And that’s why you know me.”

Crowley quickly cleared up enough space for them to start cooking while Aziraphale exclaimed over all the numerous recipes in the books. Not long after, the heavy scent of cooking food started to fill the kitchen.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve relaxed,” Aziraphale noted. “You’d seemed so stressed every time you bought me anything, I had half feared that they were _apologies_ for something I couldn’t remember.”

“I was concerned because you _didn’t_ like them,” Crowley said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Aziraphale blinked. “ _Pardon_?”

“You said you could taste love in food,” Crowley muttered. “I thought it made food taste better, so…” Crowley made a gesture to indicate all the different dishes he had acquired. “But you seemed to dislike each one more and more.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale shook his head. “Food...it becomes much more wonderful because I’m spending time with _you_.”

Crowley pulled a face.

“I mean it!” Aziraphale bumped their shoulders together. “Come on, help me cook.”

And so Crowley did. Admittedly, Crowley still couldn’t quite see the point of food, per se: it tasted fine to him, even when Aziraphale went on and on about tiny adjustments.

But he _could_ appreciate Aziraphale’s glow, Aziraphale’s easy smile. Crowley indulged in all the little taste-tests from Aziraphale’s spoon, and he soaked up all of Aziraphale’s looks.

“Are you sure you’re not eating _me_?” Aziraphale laughed.

Crowley tilted his head back and smirked. “Perhaps I am.”

Aziraphale flushed pink. “ _Darling_. Go set the table.”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley said. He acquired the finest black dishware and the deepest roses for the table. He sat down first, leaning back, gazing at Aziraphale as he made the final little touches on the food, selecting the drinks, arranging the oysters.

Crowley never had discerning tastes, but he fancied he _could_ taste something of Aziraphale in the food—or perhaps that was just the sense of Aziraphale in the air, the smile on his face, their feet tangled together under the table.

And if it was very late by the time they finished, and if Aziraphale stayed the night...that was neither here nor there.

And if they cooked again—frequently, in a new pattern that was _theirs_ —well, that was their business, and Crowley _won’t_ have anyone else interrupting.

  


  


  


_The End_ 💕 

  


  


(P.S. Crowley paid the pink-haired human _handsomely_.)


End file.
